No Time Like the Horizon
Ben Lockwood
Ben Lockwood is a writer in central Pennsylvania. Ben’s work has been featured in ergot., Intrepidus Ink, Clarkesworld Magazine, Seize the Press, Vast Chasm Magazine, and elsewhere. You can also find Ben on Bluesky (@benlockwood.bsky.social).
In nineteen ninety-two I met a fortune teller at a gas station, just off I-71 near Mansfield, Ohio. I was in my twenties then, and I'd already worked at that gas station for a few years. I didn't know it yet, but I'd be there for another fifteen, working my way up from the cash register to manager.
We were next to an interstate rest stop, which wasn’t bad because when they built those, they planted pine trees around them. If you've ever been to Ohio, you know it's ninety-five percent corn fields, or bean, so I liked seeing those trees out the window. They made me feel like something else was possible, something I hadn't imagined yet. Sometimes after work I'd sit on one of the benches between the trees and watch the sun sink into the field across the highway.
That's where I first saw the fortune teller, next to one of the pines, smoking a cigarette and sweeping her foot back and forth across the ground like she was looking for something. Her bright red coat stuck out like a berry against all the dark browns of an Ohio landscape in late fall. Her hair was red too, and her car. I remember thinking she must like red.
The bell on the station door jingled when she opened it, and as she entered, she gave me this big smile, like we were old friends or something, but her eyes looked sad, or maybe tired. Weary is the right word for it, I guess. Not that she was old, but she wasn't young either.
Before I could even greet her, she said "Someone's going to lose their wallet over there soon," then she dropped her purse on the counter and started digging through it.
"What's that?" I asked. I wasn't sure I heard her right. It seemed an odd thing to say right off the bat like that. Still seems odd now.
"Over by those trees," she gestured at the window vaguely, then pulled out her own wallet. "Someone's gonna lose their billfold someday soon. A man, I think. I don't know who, or when exactly. It's not always clear."
This time I just stood there and looked at her, because to be honest I didn't know what to say to that. Her words had reached my ears just fine, but they hadn’t registered. Eventually what came out was, "What's not clear?"
That's when she looked at me, not really at me though, more like, she looked somewhere far away that happened to be in my direction, and she said, "The future. I can see it." She said it like the words were heavy and she was tired of carrying them. I mean, there was such a certainty to her voice, such an exhaustion in it, that I didn't even think to question it. Not that I believed it, I just wasn’t sure what to make of it. So, I simply nodded, and she seemed to snap out of her vision, or trance, if you like. She smiled at me again and pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, asking for a pack of American Spirits.
Which, I'll admit put me at some ease, since selling cigarettes was far more familiar territory for me than seeing the future. I grabbed a pack, set it on the counter, and asked to see her ID. She actually laughed at that.
"You're sweet," she said. And then I had to explain to her that I actually did need to see her ID.
"It's a new policy," I told her. “Apparently these things are bad for you."
"Oh, I've heard," she said, sliding her license across the counter.
I picked it up and read it. "Well, Susan, from Philadelphia,” I said, “then you of all people should know your future will be longer if you don't smoke these."
I thought that was clever.
Her smile faded though, replaced by that thousand-yard stare. She put her license back in her wallet, and the wallet into her purse, and then she opened up the pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, tapping the end of it on the counter.
"My future ends a little less than an hour from now," she said, putting the cigarette between her lips and lit it, “soon after I find a man named Palmer.”
I should have made her put out the cigarette–against policy and all–but I didn't. I just stared at her, speechless.
"Yours doesn't though," she continued. "Your future is a long one. It's not great, but not sad either. Somewhere in the middle."
After that she looked out the window, taking a long drag on her cigarette and tilting her head to the side to blow the smoke. She gazed out that window for what seemed like an eternity, but it couldn't have been because her cigarette hadn't burned that far down when she suddenly seemed to think of something. She turned, but stopped herself just as quickly, like she'd thought better of it. Then she looked me in the eye, nodded, and left.
I watched her walk to her little red car in her red coat, not looking back once as she opened the door and got in. She pulled out of the parking lot, then got on the on-ramp to the highway, and I still think about the way her car looked as it disappeared into the distance.
But that was all years ago. Since then, I've gotten married, bought a house, started a family. All the things you're supposed to do. There was never enough money to not have to worry, but we've managed. You could say Susan wasn’t too wide of the mark.
I'm old now, or getting there anyway, and I'm watching my kids have kids of their own. Sometimes during the quiet hours of the evening, when the sun is sinking into the cornfields, I wonder where Susan went, and for how long. I wonder who Palmer was, and what she stopped herself from saying before she left. It's strange to think about life, the way it stretches and shrinks, and then finally slips over the horizon. In those moments, I wonder if it has any meaning at all.
We were next to an interstate rest stop, which wasn’t bad because when they built those, they planted pine trees around them. If you've ever been to Ohio, you know it's ninety-five percent corn fields, or bean, so I liked seeing those trees out the window. They made me feel like something else was possible, something I hadn't imagined yet. Sometimes after work I'd sit on one of the benches between the trees and watch the sun sink into the field across the highway.
That's where I first saw the fortune teller, next to one of the pines, smoking a cigarette and sweeping her foot back and forth across the ground like she was looking for something. Her bright red coat stuck out like a berry against all the dark browns of an Ohio landscape in late fall. Her hair was red too, and her car. I remember thinking she must like red.
The bell on the station door jingled when she opened it, and as she entered, she gave me this big smile, like we were old friends or something, but her eyes looked sad, or maybe tired. Weary is the right word for it, I guess. Not that she was old, but she wasn't young either.
Before I could even greet her, she said "Someone's going to lose their wallet over there soon," then she dropped her purse on the counter and started digging through it.
"What's that?" I asked. I wasn't sure I heard her right. It seemed an odd thing to say right off the bat like that. Still seems odd now.
"Over by those trees," she gestured at the window vaguely, then pulled out her own wallet. "Someone's gonna lose their billfold someday soon. A man, I think. I don't know who, or when exactly. It's not always clear."
This time I just stood there and looked at her, because to be honest I didn't know what to say to that. Her words had reached my ears just fine, but they hadn’t registered. Eventually what came out was, "What's not clear?"
That's when she looked at me, not really at me though, more like, she looked somewhere far away that happened to be in my direction, and she said, "The future. I can see it." She said it like the words were heavy and she was tired of carrying them. I mean, there was such a certainty to her voice, such an exhaustion in it, that I didn't even think to question it. Not that I believed it, I just wasn’t sure what to make of it. So, I simply nodded, and she seemed to snap out of her vision, or trance, if you like. She smiled at me again and pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, asking for a pack of American Spirits.
Which, I'll admit put me at some ease, since selling cigarettes was far more familiar territory for me than seeing the future. I grabbed a pack, set it on the counter, and asked to see her ID. She actually laughed at that.
"You're sweet," she said. And then I had to explain to her that I actually did need to see her ID.
"It's a new policy," I told her. “Apparently these things are bad for you."
"Oh, I've heard," she said, sliding her license across the counter.
I picked it up and read it. "Well, Susan, from Philadelphia,” I said, “then you of all people should know your future will be longer if you don't smoke these."
I thought that was clever.
Her smile faded though, replaced by that thousand-yard stare. She put her license back in her wallet, and the wallet into her purse, and then she opened up the pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, tapping the end of it on the counter.
"My future ends a little less than an hour from now," she said, putting the cigarette between her lips and lit it, “soon after I find a man named Palmer.”
I should have made her put out the cigarette–against policy and all–but I didn't. I just stared at her, speechless.
"Yours doesn't though," she continued. "Your future is a long one. It's not great, but not sad either. Somewhere in the middle."
After that she looked out the window, taking a long drag on her cigarette and tilting her head to the side to blow the smoke. She gazed out that window for what seemed like an eternity, but it couldn't have been because her cigarette hadn't burned that far down when she suddenly seemed to think of something. She turned, but stopped herself just as quickly, like she'd thought better of it. Then she looked me in the eye, nodded, and left.
I watched her walk to her little red car in her red coat, not looking back once as she opened the door and got in. She pulled out of the parking lot, then got on the on-ramp to the highway, and I still think about the way her car looked as it disappeared into the distance.
But that was all years ago. Since then, I've gotten married, bought a house, started a family. All the things you're supposed to do. There was never enough money to not have to worry, but we've managed. You could say Susan wasn’t too wide of the mark.
I'm old now, or getting there anyway, and I'm watching my kids have kids of their own. Sometimes during the quiet hours of the evening, when the sun is sinking into the cornfields, I wonder where Susan went, and for how long. I wonder who Palmer was, and what she stopped herself from saying before she left. It's strange to think about life, the way it stretches and shrinks, and then finally slips over the horizon. In those moments, I wonder if it has any meaning at all.